Band-Aiding the Bullet
by Madi Holmes
Summary: Missing scene, post Sharp Teeth- answers the question: "What happened to that lost bullet the evil werewolf stepmother shot before Dean killed her?" PG-13, slight Cronenberg-style organic horror. Not gross, just unsettling.
1. Chapter 1

Band-aiding the Bullet

PG-13, slight Cronenberg-style organic horror. Not gross, just unsettling.

For the first time ever, Dean "got" country music. Not the modern, perky, poppy stuff churned out by Nashville Inc. No. This country music was of his childhood, hidden beneath the surface of Mary's rock and roll and John's Chicago and delta blues. Mary had denounced both country and western as the stuff of Hee-Haw and hicks, while his father ignored it completely, didn't even register George Strait, let alone Garth Brooks or the Dixie Chicks.

No, the country of Dean's childhood always existed in other people's lives. Rusty AM feeds where it bled through Charlie Rose and Cubs games. In honkytonks full of an equal number of bar flies, drunks, farm laborers, bored farmers still high on marijuana after harvesting corn, and finally rat-tailed toddlers. Places that had made the Roadhouse look like the Cheers bar or a Bennigans.

That country was all twang and pre-irony PBR's and pain and misery and being dead at fifty.

And he finally got it.

He'd lost his home, his brother, his angel, his prophet, his self-respect, his soul. Benny had been right about the forgiveness of country music. That it wasn't about finding absolution, but about accepting oneself, fangs and all. But Dean still couldn't shoot that gun.

Hours passed until he could no longer see straight, the music indecipherable, and the car's gauges all bleeding into one. Pulled over into some backwoods motel, ignored everything, went mute in colors and sounds as he entered the grey-infested room, still clueless on what to do next.

Entered the shower, he lathered mechanically, washing, scrubbing everything, felt it.

The wrongness.

Looked down in the steam and water, saw the small indentation burrowing into flesh. Water dripping down into it, cascading off. His fingers went up, prying, not feeling anything except skin, physical contact, and the nothingness of a hole.

Tripping out of the shower, shin banging on the fiber glass tub, he slammed against the mirror, rubbing away moisture as he tried to see himself distorted in water tracks.

Gently, ever so gently, he pushed a fingertip against it, met no resistance, pushed in further. An inch in, sensed blockage. Something metallic and blood warm, its diameter matching the hole.

As the shower spewed unnoticed, he retrieved the first aid kit, pulled out a pair of forceps, gauze, and the hotel bottle of Jack Daniels he had stolen months ago. Chugged the drink hard, he inserted the clamp in several inches, hit metal, winced a little as he eased it around the intrusion, and clicked the handle shut.

Dean closed his eyes, fully prepared to bleed out in ten seconds, steadied one hand against the wall, and pulled everything out, groaning not in actual pain, but in ill-defined terror.

And then nothing.

The tip cleared his chest, revealing a bullet. He dropped everything onto the floor, waiting for his blood to spurt endlessly. Dying in a shithole of a motel bathroom. Not how he expected to go, but better than most scenarios.

Still nothing.

He went cold as he looked, couldn't register the lack of blood, pain, and death.

Went mute as he realized that he wasn't dying, the mark on his arm growing warm, soft; could feel the hole start to heal- filling in from the inside out until all that remained was unmarred skin and thin tufts of reddish hair. Touched the flesh, prodded at it, looked in the evaporating mirror, saw only his body healthy and whole.

Exhaled, looked into his eyes, tried not to, finally whispering the truth to himself.

"I'm a monster."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean Winchester knew he was being a bitch by skulking away at three AM. That to just up and leave was the wrong thing for everyone, but he didn't know what else to do. Wrote a note to Cas saying, "take care of Sam." Tore that one up. Wrote another saying, "Just watch out for Sam," "keep Sam safe," then two more permutations before realizing he didn't know how to write that kind of letter without making it sound like he was being an overly protective brother, even in absentia.

So he left. Packed a duffle, left everything else in its place- his hidden books, his music, his weapons on the wall, everything. It was either a symbol to show that he'd return one day or it was a tomb for his last real home. He wasn't quite sure which, but understood it to be the latter.

The night sucked. Both warm and clammy, full of moribund clouds and a far off distant whiff of dead skunk. He was too tired to start out, but too emotionally exhausted not to. Made the hundred miles to Clay Center, pulled over into the rest stop. Parked by the Hardees and started to doze, even as the truckers were just starting to awaken, wait for their time for the showers, and prowl around.

Closing his eyes, he sprawled out along the seat, and slept hard. Vivid dreaming of sunlight, angels, babies, and children.

Woke up around noon, cramping, realizing he was finally too old to sleep in the Impala anymore. That knowledge hurt too, whispering "You also?" thinking of Sam, then regretted it. "No, just you and me, Baby. Just you and me now. You'll always have gas and oil and spark plugs long as I'm around. Gotta keep my baby fed and happy." Felt cheap and maudlin and cliche, didn't care. Went into the Hardees, ate a burger, took off again. Another two hundred miles, he entered Kansas City, Kansas. Knew a cheap motel stocked with a hunter's bedroom that came pre-salted. Rented out the week and hunkered down amidst the buzz of railroad tracks and an abandoned burlap sack factory being torn down.

He was, somehow, free then. Of everything. Could even give up hunting and do something different without fear of death, reprisal, or loss. Drove around aimlessly, looking at various garages and repair places. Wanted somewhere that wasn't overly dependent on computers and one not deep in the ghetto. Finally came upon Mike's Repair and Garage in Olathe. It looked run down enough, but with enough classic cars to pique his interest.

As it turned out, Mike was already dead.

But Bill, his beer can of a son, still kept it going, the garage a level above shade tree mechanics.

"I'm not too young," Dean started the ad hoc job interview without Mike knowing what was going on.

"What?"

"You're looking at me, and you see electronics. You think because I'm under fifty that all I know how to do is hook up an OBD-II scanner into the computer, and bam. Diagnosis. That's not me. I can do that, but if I wanted that, I'd be at Midas. I mostly do older cars. Can be classics, be K cars, domestic, or foreign. Doesn't matter. Someone pushes them in off the street, I'll fix 'em back to new."

Bill smiled at that, looked at Dean's hands, nodded at his car off in the back. "hold your hands out." Dean raised his palms horizontally. Bill gazed down at the calluses, the whorls and knots. "A little soft, but they'll do. That your car?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You rebuild that?"

"Couple of times. Was my dad's. Now it's mine."

"Sorry to hear that."

"All in the past now." Dean replied automatically. "All of it."

"I see," Bill said, not pushing it. "No drugs, no getting shit faced, no being hung over, no fighting, no gossiping, no being late, no floozies on site at any time- this is my land. You get paid every other Friday. Your time is your time. My times is my time. My time means you watch what you do on your time. You fix Marie's Lincoln over there without needing my eight year old niece to show you how to change the oil, and you're hired."

"Fair enough." Dean nodded, shook Bill's hand, and got lost in the whining pitch of shredded cables and a misfiring spark plug.

Dean paid another two weeks in advance. He could have moved on, even just a couple miles into Missouri, but KCK was close enough and distant enough that Sam could find him without too much trouble. A week, then another, and Dean hadn't heard anything. He kept the cell phone charged and on, but never got anything beyond an occasional "wereokayareyouokaadfhae?" text from Cas. Castiel, angel of the lord, still couldn't figure out to text and had once raved long and hard about the evilness of QWERTY keyboards. Dean still could laugh at that angelic tantrum.

Dean worked hard, not as much as some of the other workers, but he still exhausted himself nightly. Went home and caught up on sleep, tv shows, cooking, whatever he could to fill in the emptiness of the small room.

"You actually hunting?" The woman at the desk asked through a wad of gum.

"Why?" Dean responded, watching the brick factory get dismantled through the window.

"That room's for hunters. We got tired of the constant salt clean up and occasional blood stains, so we fixed one especial. If you're not hunting, you're not a hunter."

"I'm on sabbatical."

"A what?"

"I'm on a sabba- look. You want me to move to a regular room, I'll move."

"Eh. No hunter wants it just yet."

"Then why press- okay. Fine. I'll stay there until a hunting hunter shows up."

The woman nodded, took the money, and wandered off into the back room.

Dean puzzled at it, gnawed at the sentiment with his back teeth, wondering what that meant if he had just stopped, and Bob's Garage was all he had for his future. Went off to work.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelped hard,  
his left hand mangled slammed between metal. "Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!" He screeched as Miguel fumbled, trying to pop the Ford's hood and release Dean's hand. It finally released, Dean instantly cradling his fist against his chest. Tears of pain clouding his eyes, his breathing hard and erratic.

Bill immediately emerged from the office as the workers all scattered. He pulled Dean back into the room, grabbed the first aid kit. Pawed at the hurt hand until Dean finally relented, showing his palm and fingers still shaking in pain. His boss looked around the digits, looking for breaks or sprains. "Nothing major, looks like you got lucky." Bill stated, feeling the fingers individually as he wrapped the cuts in gauze and ointment. "Take the rest of the day off. If it starts changing colors, swelling, or tries to choke yourself, go to the ER. I got worker's comp for a reason."

"I think I'm okay," Dean replied, feeling the pain already start to dissipate.

Bill nodded, moved onto other things as the crisis died down.

Dean knew shit was up. He could sense it. Collected his paycheck, headed back to the motel. Driving one handed as best he could with his right hand still gently throbbing and bandaged.

Parked in front of the main office, looked at his hand, flexed against the gauze. Untucked the end, and started to roll it up, revealing a perfect hand, not sure what quick healing had meant. Knew it was a bad sign. Got out, saw the clerk working in the front office, waved happily to him. He happily waved back, all doe-eyed and innocent, like a boy who had just fallen off the turnip truck.

Dean decided to leave right then and there. St. Joe or St. Louis. Maybe Lenexa just to throw everyone off. But KCK was dead to him now. Wondered if he should run right then and there, but couldn't abandon the journal.

Got back into the car, re-parked it around the corner of his place, hustled by the demolition crew, and slammed into the room. Grabbed the book on the back table. Turned back to the front door.

The ground dropped out from beneath him, the door and front wall caving in toward him as a wrecking ball punched through cement brick and mortar in heavy kinetic force.

Dean staggered up to his feet, gun drawn as he tucked the journal in the back of his jeans. Drew the other gun, ready to shoot any mother fucker who crossed the evaporated salt lines.

"Come out, Dean. I want you to play with me." Abaddon's voice trebled through a bull horn. "You stood me up for our date, and I'm a horny and now pissed off bitch."

Dean grinned, dangerous, all teeth and canine fangs. "Come on in. I'll make you scream to hell and back."

A lone demon emerged through the dust and asbestos.  
"Sorry, Darling." Dean called out, flicked the demon knife at the man's heart. "Not into threesomes with dudes." Charged up to the falling body, pulled it out, flipped around, and waited for the next.

"Maybe not with strange men, but people you know? You're the kind of guy that wants that womanly emotional connection." Abaddon drawled back as another demon appeared.

"Oh, Bill," Dean sighed hard, apologizing. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, sliding up to his friend, slashed out the throat, then another stab to the heart, killing the man as gently as he could. Placed him on the bed, covering his face at least with the top quilt with one hand. The other covering the gashed wall.

Wary of a new attack, Dean hazarded a look outside. Saw nobody. Holed up further in the back. Tried Cas's phone, then Sam's. Nothing. Tried any random number. Still nothing.

Went over to the sink, pulled the faucet taps backwards, and pushed hard.

The secret hatch groaned open, and Dean squeezed through, pushing back sewer lines and rat traps. Slipped quietly along five hundred feet, and emerged into the back hallway of the motel's trucker restaurant.

Still completely alone, he crept along the tables and upside down chairs, feeling naked and exposed, he could see the Impala through the large windows. Pulled the fire alarm, slammed against the fire exist, and jumped down low next to the car. Unlocked the door, slid into the driver's seat, set the journal next to him, cranked the car on, and slammed it in reverse.

Red and pain and agony gurgled up from his chest.

Dean couldn't see, couldn't feel, felt everything. The sniper bullet trashing his lungs, disgorging skin and tissue matter from his back, spattering the back seat with foamy blood. The windshield spider webbing and shattering.

As he sat there, gasping, wheezing for the last of the air, Abaddon stalked forward, dressed as a sexy construction worker, her hard hat cockeyed atop her pinned up hair. A demon with a sniper rifle by her side.

"Well, well, well," she mused, pulling his bloody shirt from his body, examined the destroyed remains of the tattoo. "Guess I didn't have to peel your skin off after all."

Dean, swimming in and out of life, tried to focus, tried to force his death that much faster.

"Oh, that's not going to work, Dean. You'll live. You're going to live." Abaddon gave one last happy grin, and suddenly Dean was choking on blood and smoke and life.


End file.
